


Heartbreak and Destiny

by LiberaMeDelailah



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I accidentally grew a multichapter, I create characters to kill them, I love these two dumb fucks, I promise I'll deliver some fluff, Immortality, M/M, Minor Character Death, Papa Vesemir, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Sad, Unreliable Narrator, Vesemir has a real important role in chapter 3, Witcher!Jaskier, actually beta'd, and they love each other, he’s the narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:49:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22947322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiberaMeDelailah/pseuds/LiberaMeDelailah
Summary: He was screaming. Repeatedly he screamed. He was apologizing for everything he did wrong. All of it. Everything he did to hurt his Witcher, to push him away.Please, he begged, please don’t push me away.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Original Female Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Original Female Character(s), Vesemir (The Witcher)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 114
Kudos: 1063





	1. Heartbreak

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write this for so LONG.  
> I've been thinking on how to tackle it.  
> Finally, something clicked.

_The pain was everywhere. He couldn’t breathe. He was dying, he knew he was dying. Who was going to save him? No one, no one, no one was going to save him now. He was alone. What an idiot. How dare he hope._

_And yet…_

_Geralt._

_Geralt._

_Geralt._

_He was screaming. Repeatedly he screamed. He was apologizing for everything he did wrong. All of it. Everything he did to hurt his Witcher, to push him away. Please, he begged, please don’t push me away._

_The pain, it was too much, too intense._

_Was he going to die here? Without seeing Geralt one last time?_

_His hair?_

_His eyes?_

_The way he would smile ever so subtly when a child came running to him with a flower?_

_How he would talk to his mare more than to any man?_

_Jaskier’s soul was being ripped apart but all he could scream about was Geralt. His love. The man he loved more than life itself. He shrieked, feeling as his body was crashing against the sun. He was burning, frozen over – he was nothing and yet everything all at once. Gods, when was it going to end? Yet he didn’t dare to ask for death, because,_

_Geralt._

_He wanted to see his Witcher again._

_“Hush, child. You’ll see him again. I swear it.”_

* * *

It was cold, and damp, when he opened his eyes. The space before him was so dark, he almost didn’t notice a difference when his eyelids opened.

Atop of his arm was the warm feeling of a hand, which, for a moment, startled him – however, he was too weak to question whatever was that hand doing. He could feel the magic pulsating from it, as it moved from the tip of his fingers to his stomach. It was soothing, really, as if he needed that touch to keep himself… from _falling_. He tried to speak, but he found that he was unable to, only able to muster a sound similar to a grunt – and he was sorely reminded of his Witcher for a few seconds, before the hand tensed slightly, then, it relaxed again and continued to heal. 

“You’re awake.” The voice that spoke was that of a female, and she was – or, at least, sounded, young. Perhaps far too young to be in the darkness, healing away a bard perhaps she did not know. He grunted again, acknowledging her words. “I’m sorry, Jaskier. They’ve not given me much of a choice. I’ve written to Geralt but, you understand how hard he is to track. Surely, you know it better than I do.” There was a smile in her voice, and kindness – somehow, it reminded him of a mother looking after her children. He didn’t understand what was going on, but he found comfort in her words anyways.

The voice coughed, and her hand moved away for a second, and once the magic was not doing any effect over Jaskier’s body did he understand _what she was doing._

His back arched, and he felt the bile rise from his stomach and the _pain was so much._ He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t, he felt his bones cracking and under a pressure that didn’t exist, and he knew he was dying all over again, he was going to _die_ without seeing Geralt again. Gods, _just one more time._

Both her hands found their way to his chest in a rush, her voice barely a whisper when she spoke again, “I won’t let them take you too, please, please. He’ll save you, please. I didn’t want this to happen. I never wanted this to happen.”

He didn’t know who she was, but he was sure that was true. Her magic moved again, from his chest to his limbs, and he was alive again, he could breathe. “Gods, I’ll give you everything, please don’t _die._ I’ve killed so many I can’t kill you too.”

He could see her shadowy figure, long hair, maybe even the shape of her nose, but nothing else. She was probably watching him, because there was a weakened sigh at his confused expression. “You’re not the first. They’ve tried these twenty different times. Eight children, four girls and four boys…” He could feel the tears falling on his chest. “Two soldiers, two farmers, and some willing cult members…” She sobbed. “I tried to keep them all alive, Jaskier. But the children debilitated so fast…”

He wanted to wonder why she would help with something like this, with whatever ‘this’ was supposed to be, but his eyes closed before he could look at her more. He was too tired; his back was cold but the hands over his heart were warm. He fell asleep, listening to the sobs of a woman he didn’t know.

* * *

_Geralt was on Velen, in a small village that he didn’t even know the name. His right boot was broken, so he went straight to the closest thing to civilization to get it fixed. There was a damn Wyvern, and everything went straight to hell after that. Why was it always a Wyvern?_

_He was sitting by the armorer, waiting, when a small girl with blue eyes and pointy ears came to him. She was a half-breed – which surprised him honestly, because she seemed to be cared for and loved, not a single scar on her skin. She was holding a letter in her small, delicate hands. She chuckled lightly when she gave it to him and whispered something about destiny taking a hold into the unwilling. It was written in Elder, and he hated translating from Elder because he never managed to learn more than a few words._

_But a few words were more than enough. ‘Save your bard, by the abandoned tower on Crow’s Perch.’ Gods, he prided himself about being unfeeling, but his heart jumped and thrummed in a way that could only be described as panic. Him and Jaskier parted ways in… in a way that he wasn’t sincerely proud of, but he thought that perhaps it was safer for him to stay away. Safer for the two of them._

_But,_

_Destiny takes a hold of the unwilling._

_He looked for the girl but she was nowhere to be found — he had no time to lose, his bard, the bard he had hurt and had abandoned, he was somewhere out of his reach and he needed to save him._

_Gods, he needed to save him._

* * *

When he woke up again, the hands on his chest had moved to his neck, and his head was now on top of a pair of legs. The magic was weak, probably due to the effort the mage was doing to keep him alive. When he opened his eyes, he was greeted by the fact that it was no longer dark. He was in… a room. Or a cell, maybe, since the door had some iron bars on a small window.

There were some tables filled with crystal vials and one too many strange-looking bottles. He tried to turn his head, but the hands in his neck kept him in place. “No… Not yet…” The voice mumbled, and he finally looked up to her. Her hair was chestnut, like his, and her eyes were green. She was beautiful, but she looked so extremely worn out that Jaskier worried that she might die from the exhaustion. Her cheeks were hollowed, and her lips were dry – as if she hadn’t drunk a single drop of water since… well, since forever.

Jaskier wondered if he was able to talk and ask why – the why to a lot of things. He tried, and while his voice didn’t sound quite human, he managed to utter something akin to a question. The mage shook her head, chuckling. “I betted my soul foolishly. Magic is dangerous, Jaskier, and men will always want to take advantage of the chaos.” She didn’t look a day older than twenty, but the way she spoke reminded him of a grandmother, one that sat at the edge of a village, seeing the days pass by. “They wanted an army.”

He grunted again, and she understood his unasked question yet again. “They wanted what they couldn’t have — and I wanted… so much. And they knew. I was arrogant, the arrogance that comes with magic.” She fell into silence, then, putting even more effort into the magic at Jaskier’s neck. She seemed to be withering away, and yet, she didn’t pull back from him. He wondered what her name was. “I was a mage in Kaer Morhen. I saw my brothers and sisters attack the Witchers and I helped the youngest students hide, but they found us, I was spared simply because I was no Witcher. Gods, I wish I was. I saw them kill them, Jaskier. Every single one of the children I tried to protect, the youngest was barely four. And I was taken. Cursed, so I couldn’t do magic. And I betted my soul, looking for freedom.”

She rested her forehead against Jaskier’s, and he could almost feel her pain. She smelled of heartbreak and destiny. Like Geralt. “I won’t let down one of my children. Geralt will come for you, and then he’ll kill me.”

Jaskier didn’t want to think about the alternative, in which Geralt didn’t come to rescue him, and he ended as the mage above him, trapped in a world he didn’t want to be in. “When he arrived, he had a ragdoll. He was four and had the cutest eyes. Vesemir took a liking to him immediately.” She sat straight, her hands trembling as she talked, she was in a lot of pain. “He cried a lot, back then. Other children used to push him around because he was so small. I always did magic tricks when we were alone, and his eyes shone so much.” Her voice broke at the end of the sentence.

Jaskier tried to sit and yanked away her hands from his neck; he wanted to look at her face to face. It came at a price, however, when he started once again to puke bile, and when the world started to spin. She caught him as he fell right back on her arms; she soothed him while he was engulfed into darkness once again.

* * *

A drop fell on his cheek. His hand moved on its own and touched it, he could smell the iron in the air. It was blood. He looked up and saw the mage smiling down to him, blood coming out of her nose. “Hey.” Her voice was hoarse, and he raised his hand to touch her face. “My, you’re such a tender lad, but I’m a taken woman. And your heart belongs to someone else.”

He found his voice, at long last, “You can stop.” It was barely a whisper, but more than enough for her to finally put her hands away. When she did, he expected to be in a lot more of pain, but his body didn’t seem to be destroying itself from the inside out anymore.

She smiled even brighter than before and helped him sit down. His stomach growled like a dragon asking for prey. “I’m sorry, I can’t leave and say you’re fine. If I do, they’ll come and try to…” She shivered at the thought of whatever they might do to him. “Hang in there a bit more. I can feel him. He’s close, and he’s angry.” She closed her eyes and leaned against a damped wall.

He wanted to pout, but he was aware the situation didn’t call for it. “I’m sure he isn’t angry on my behalf. He _hates_ me.”

She tittered, tiredly. “Geralt didn’t have an easy life, child.” She closed her eyes. “He was left on our door by his own mother, not an orphan, nor a child surprise. He was abandoned, and at such a tender age he began training to become a Witcher.” Her voice was carried by the winds. She looked as if she was watching him, right in front of her, that four-year-old child that she used to look after. “Then, the trials came. I had to take care of multiple children at once, I couldn’t have the care I had for you. With you, I erased the memories; with them, I couldn’t do a thing but keep them breathing… Many of them weren’t the same after. The ones who survived, of course. It was cruel, ruthless, but… A necessity, or so they used to say.” She sighed, looking defeated. Suddenly, she seemed to very old, even if her face was still that of a young woman. “He didn’t grow up like a normal kid does, be patient with him, yeah? Hell, Vesemir was horrible when he was young. Fucked him out of that broody demeanor.” She smiled, and she looked innocent, even while talking about fucking a man out of his common sense. That made Jaskier giggle.

Her shoulders tensed, and he brought Jaskier’s head down to her lap, covering his eyes with one hand when the door suddenly opened. “Fourteen days, and he’s still not conscious?” The voice was deep, and the sound of his steps made Jaskier think he was a bigger man. Heavy. “We’ll bring another one tomorrow.”

“NO! No! Please, please just, two more days, my lord, and I swear he will wake up!” Her voice was much higher than before, her grip tightening around his eyes. “I’ll— I’ll make it up to you, if he doesn’t wake. I promise, I know your cock better than any other woman does, whore or otherwise!” The man hummed, the smirk clear in his voice, and he walked away, slamming the wooden door. Her hands were trembling slightly once he was gone. He took hold of the one atop of his eyes.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered and tightened his grip.

She squeezed back. “It’s fine.”

* * *

_It took him two weeks to reach the abandoned tower, and he wasted no time. There were three guards by the door and his anger made him swing his sword before his reason told him to wait and strategize. He took their heads, and inside the tower there were three more, and he bashed one of them on the face with a shield and the other two he pierced by the throat. He went up, knowing full well Jaskier was down – he could smell him; but there were more people in the tower, and he was going to kill them all. None of them deserved to see the light of day._

_He was more animal than person, taking them all with his incredible might. Until he reached the highest point on the Tower, a laboratory. This place was cursed, so whoever was that wrote the letter must’ve lifted the curse — and it made little sense, Geralt only knew few mages and Witchers that powerful but he didn’t think of it much – not when he had a monster to destroy._

_They touched Jaskier._

_His bard._

_The man he abandoned, the man he left behind._

_He bit his lips, feeling the taste of blood on his tongue._

_He killed the ugly bastard that had kept his bard captive, a fat fuck that lived more on family name than by being an actual lord. He kicked his head. Then, he ran down the stairs, to the cells on the lower level of the tower._

* * *

It was almost the end of the second day, when the sound of fighting and screams made its way into the cell. Both Jaskier and the mage were taken aback, when they saw a figure blasting away the door with the power of a sign – Aard. Geralt, the White Wolf, looked ready to destroy anyone who got between him and the bard. He was completely bathed in blood, but Jaskier had never seen a man so beautiful in his entire life. The bard was ready to burst, cry, scream, and everything in between, but he kept himself controlled, for the sake of the Witcher before him.

When his eyes fell into Jaskier, and he stumbled forwards, not even thinking before he cupped Jaskier’s head in his bloodied hands. “Your eyes—” Geralt’s shock was obvious, and it was then when Jaskier supposed that, something must’ve changed if he went through the Witcher’s trials _, even if he did not remember._ Geralt’s eyes left his, for a second, and he looked over to the mage.

“Ileana…” He whispered, not even bothering to hide his surprise. She waved at him. “You’ve grown so much, Geralt. I can see the wrinkles on your forehead already. I’m happy to see it. I always wanted to see you become a strong man.” She was kind and soft as she spoke to him, and Geralt was unsure what to do, if go to her, or continue to hold Jaskier. The bard pushed him on the shoulder gently for him to go to her.

He did. Geralt knelt before the weakened mage. “Ileana, what happened to you?”

“Long story that your bard will tell you later. Now, I need you to kill me and get out of here.” She tapped his cheek with motherly affection, and there was heartbreak in her eyes, something that must’ve been reflecting in Geralt’s. “I did that to Jaskier, but I gave him a small mercy. He doesn’t remember the trials. Most of it, at least.” She rested her forehead against Geralt’s. “Now, cutting my head clean off, or piercing my heart will do the trick. You’re a wonderful man and I’m so happy I saw you once more. Jaskier kept calling your name repeatedly in the trials and he kept mentioning how sorry he was, whatever you did, undo it, he loves you, and I think you love him too, if his emotions are anything to go by.” She kissed his nose, very softly. Jaskier was able to hear a small sound in the back of Geralt’s throat.

“Why didn’t you…” his voice was so pained, so _small;_ Jaskier felt as if he was watching a little part of Geralt’s heart break in front of his very eyes.

“Kill myself? I tried, seventeen times. Something always went wrong. Maybe destiny. Maybe something else.” She caressed his cheek with her thumb. “Do it, Geralt. Free me.” He did. He buried a dagger deep in her heart. She took his hand on hers and pressed even deeper. “I love you, and Vesemir, very much. You were always like a son, for both of us. I’m very proud of you.” It was barely audible, what she said, but it was buried deeply in Geralt’s heart anyways, Jaskier was sure of it.

She laid there, then. Her chestnut, long hair falling atop of her chest, hiding the dagger barely. It seemed as if she was asleep, a soft smile on her lips. Jaskier moved closer to Geralt, unsure whether to touch him or not. It was Geralt who turned around and buried his face on his neck. If Jaskier felt some drops on his naked chest, he never told anyone about them, and never did he ever write a song about the White Wolf’s tears, either.

Those were his to keep.

* * *

Geralt killed the man responsible for the atrocities committed on that dungeon. Baron Borgia. He was one of the descendants of the fanatics who had attacked Kaer Morhen. It seemed strange that a descendant would try to archive what their ancestor tried to eliminate, but, then again, humans always wanted everything they couldn’t have. It gave them a sense of control in a world they couldn’t dominate.

Jaskier was feeling much better – at least physically – especially after eating a deer completely on his own. His metabolism had truly changed, and with it, so did his hunger – considering he went without eating for two weeks, he thought that maybe it was normal. He thought for a moment of Iliana, and how she might’ve gone by without food much longer, just for the purpose of keeping him alive. His heart felt suddenly tight in his chest. He tried, then, to focus on the outside, instead of in his intruding thoughts.

There were many sounds in nature that he couldn’t remember ever listening to – now, he was listening to a stream running in the distance, to children playing a village close-by, to a mother screaming so that her kids would enter the house and take a bath. He was sure that, if he focused enough, he would be able to listen to a spider webbing her spiderweb. It was too much information, so much, that it began to make him go dizzy after a while. Geralt stared at him for a few minutes, and then, he approached Jaskier, covering his ears delicately with his two hands. “Concentrate on the sound of my blood, on the sound of my body, my muscles, my bones…” He whispered against his forehead; and Jaskier did as he was told. “It’s hard, but you’ll get used to it. Ileana must’ve kept you under heavy spells, to distract you from the new sensations while she healed you.” He murmured. He was hurting. Underneath the rough sound of his voice, was the gentle mumble of a child – a four-year-old, running to Ileana when he had a scratch on his knee. Jaskier held both his hands against his ears then, to ground him. To show that one young child inside of Geralt’s heart that he wasn’t alone.

“What am I going to do with you?” He whispered, his lips trembling. Jaskier took hold of his jaw, and straightened his face, looking into Geralt’s eyes, that now were an exact reflection of his own.

“Keep me as a travel companion and let me sing.” Jaskier looked at him with hopeful eyes. “I’ve not changed, Geralt, I’m still Jaskier.”

And the Witcher, his friend, held him close, hugging him to his chest. He was so broken. So tired. “Yes, you are, but the world won’t see it like that. They will see me, in you.” It dawned on Jaskier, then, that he was… a mutant. That, even if he did not think of himself as such, people would look at him and see everything but the bard he used to be. He wasn’t even sure, completely, if he was still the same, even if he tried to affirm it to calm Geralt’s worries. “They will hate you. And hurt you and think of you as an animal and I can’t protect you from their scorn—” He chocked. “Gods… I can’t protect you even from myself. I—”

Jaskier remembered Ileana’s words, about Geralt’s childhood, about the trials, about the pain he felt momentarily and almost destroyed everything he was and Geralt had to feel, constantly, without someone to soothe it away. “I know, and I forgive you.” He smiled tenderly at Geralt, his friend, the man he loved the most in the world. He would’ve died a thousand deaths if it meant he could see him again. “We’ll find a way to make this work.”

He hoped, at least.

The Witcher sighed, feeling conflicted. “First, though, I take you to Kaer Morhen. I have to deliver the news to Vesemir, anyways…” Geralt separated himself from Jaskier, taking a few steps towards Roach, who was happily eating some grass ahead. Jaskier began to walk, too, and took Geralt’s hand, squeezing it.

“Ileana said that she had a bet with her soul on the line and she lost. She was doing this because they were making her, not because she wanted to. She’s been trapped for over fifty years. I was the first successful mutation.” He explained. “How did she reach you?”

“An elven girl came to me, with a letter written in elder. She took measures so no one could track it. I honestly don’t understand how she managed to find me – it baffles me.”

“Destiny was on my side, after all.”

Geralt grunted, deciding it wasn’t worth it to argue the bard. After all, maybe he did trust destiny more, now. _Destiny takes a hold of the unwilling._

He squeezed the hand that was holding his. “I’m sorry, even if you said you forgave me. I abandoned you on the mountains. Maybe you would still be—”

“A human? Still very much am. Same as you. The only difference, that I’ve not seen for myself by the way, is the eyes.” Jaskier explained, very matter-of-factly. He almost believed it. _Almost._

Geralt got into Roach’s saddle, and offered Jaskier his hand, which the bard took graciously, setting his arms around the broader man’s waist. Jaskier rested his head on the Geralt’s shoulder. “She smelled a lot like you.” The Witcher hummed softly.

When they were far enough from the cave, Jaskier finally felt some tears streaming down his face.

For everything he didn’t remember, for everything they had taken. He was fine, really, he swore he was fine. He didn’t understand why the tears didn’t stop coming out. He felt a hand grasp his, and Geralt brought it to his chest, holding it there. “You can cry. I’m sorry. You can cry.”

And cry he did. For everything they took from him, for everything they took from Geralt. He cried, and cried, until his eyes didn’t have tears. Geralt held his hand, silently giving him a soft comfort. He sobbed, until he no longer had a voice. Then, when his throat was sore, and his head was pounding, and only then, he knew that he was indeed still Jaskier. No mutation would ever take away from him his heartache – no matter how much people wanted to make Witchers believe it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, english isn't my first language and that's why some words might seem iffy.  
> I had two betas and they prefer to stay anon!  
> 


	2. The smell of sea, before the storm.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knew the world wasn’t burning, but his soul was lit ablaze. 
> 
> They would find a way, there would be light, in the endless sea of darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had an idea for a sequel... I love these two too much.

Two days went by in a blur for Jaskier, as they rode. The world seemed brighter, and yet, darker. So many sounds were beautiful but also intimidating. It was often that he found himself covering his ears and closing his eyes because… it was just too much.

_His mind always went to Geralt, wherever he was – trying to find in him an anchor to keep himself sane._

They came to a stop in a tavern, poor Roach tired from having to carry two grown men similarly built. Jaskier petted her once she was at the stable, giving her a small kiss right beside her eye. She smelled like dirt and sweat – and maybe they should give _her_ a bath – but also, the subtle scent of Geralt lingered on her.

_Gods, he loved him._

Witcher took the saddle off her, and the mare almost seemed relieved. Jaskier felt guilty, but they had to reach Kaer Morhen as soon as possible. “I’ll bring you an apple, for your troubles.” He told her kindly, once Geralt was done, and she neighed happily, nuzzling his chest. A cat, perhaps, instead of a mare.

A hand on his shoulder stopped Jaskier just before they were about to head inside of the tavern. He turned his head to look at Geralt, whose eyes were filled with the glint of concern. There was, in the air, the smell of flowers, but not the type you see in celebrations – like weddings, or summers, but at funerals. He settled his palm above Geralt’s and tilted his head ever so slightly. “What’s wrong, dear Witcher?”

Geralt squeezed his shoulder, gently. The endearment caused his eyes to shine a bit brighter – taking away the light of worry for the smallest of seconds. “Fear smells like rotten fruits, and anger, like old sweat. These two emotions are common, when people with our eyes, or my hair, arrive.” He explained, as patiently as possible. How many young Witchers had Geralt taught? Ileana explained to him about the massacre, but, Geralt must’ve been forty by the time it happened. Did he have the chance to…? To teach? It was a question for another day.

Jaskier nodded, weakly. “Maybe if I sing, they—”

Geralt closed his eyes, and there was real pain there, in that expression. In the wrinkles on his forehead, in-between his eyebrows. “Jask, you _look_ like me, imagine how it would look like if you started singing _toss a coin to your Witcher_.” When his eyelids opened, he was looking at Jaskier as if pleading. “They’ll think you’re a beggar.”

It _destroyed_ him to think so. Not only would they look at him, _at them_ , as a mutant, but they would also laugh at his song as if it was a mere joke. Even his love songs, or any, for that matter, would look half-assed in the eyes of… _of humans._

Because they did not think him human. They thought of them as…

_Monsters who hunted other monsters._

He covered his mouth, concealing a weak weep. Geralt covered his eyes with his left hand and led him inside, to the barmaid, asking if there was a room available. With his eyes covered, no one could see the tears as they fell in the palm of the Witcher, who gently caressed his hair with his thumb. While the barmaid prepared their room — one — Jaskier managed to smell the fear and anger in the environment. He could hear the whispers of men, _‘Butcher’, ‘Monster’, ‘Mutant’;_ it ached, deep within his being.

He proceeded to listen to Geralt’s heartbeat, instead, and to smell _him_ instead of everyone else. He said he smelled much like Ileana, and it was still true. There were scents that he could only describe as sadness and longing and, even perhaps melancholy. That’s what Geralt smelled like, old dust of a library, the roses of a funeral, the sea before a storm. It was a strange combination – one that followed him all the way to the room. Uncomfortably warm, filled with dust, with a small table, and a single bed with bedsheets that had seen better days; the room was exactly like every other room he has ever been in.

_And yet, it was different._

In the wooden floor, he could see brownish spots, splattered across. The smell in the air was peculiar, like an old corpse. “A murder?” He whispered, to no one in particular – but he knew Geralt caught his words.

“Long ago. Probably over six years. You can’t clean off blood from wood completely.” He explained, as he took a sit on the edge of the bed. He looked defeated – as a warrior that had lived through the worst of wars. Perhaps he was exactly that. Jaskier praised himself as observant, but he never truly looked upon Geralt as much as he thought he did. Underneath his eyes, some darkened bags rested, on his brow, subtle lines of worry and tiredness laid. His shoulders were tense, and he was dirty, even if they had cleaned themselves on a river three days ago. “Come here.”

Jaskier sat by the right side of the Witcher, and Geralt took a small vial out of one of his pockets. He poured some of its content in his thumb. He leaned forward and daubed some of the liquid underneath Jaskier’s nose. It smelled like chamomile. It helped to relieve some of the smells of the room. “Often, we do this when we’re younger. As we grow, we’re able to simply ignore the overabundance of information.” His index caressed Jaskier’s cheek softly, much more gently than Jaskier thought Geralt capable of. He probably felt… Guilty.

They spent a few minutes like this, Jaskier just listening to Geralt’s body – his blood, his bones. Sometimes, his mind wandered and so did his ear, and he was able to listen to the people downstairs – to the screams and laughter. _He wanted to be there, too._ But he wasn’t ready, he wasn’t prepared for their scorn. For their senseless hate. “Jaskier, I _have_ to know, what happened prior to… To Borgia. How did you end up with Ileana?” That was a question he expected, and yet he truly didn’t want to answer; they had not spoken about what had transpired in the abandoned tower – Jaskier didn’t know if it was for his sake or for Geralt’s, but it was true that they _needed_ to talk about it.

The bard took a few minutes to think about it.

* * *

_His lute was broken._

_His feet were barely touching the ground._

_He wondered, silently, slipping in and out of consciousness, whose daughter had he fucked now. Depending on where he was, it could be even daughters_ and _sons. Maybe that was what would get him kill._

_People, and their prejudices._

_“400 crowns.” He heard someone say – he tried to look, but he was slapped so hard that he was feeling the tingling sensation of the hand long after the pain passed._

_“400 crowns for the white wolf’s bard? Piss off. Make it a thousand.” There was a lot of disgust in that voice. A meat trader? Was he being sold as a slave? Perhaps._

_But the pain he felt wasn’t the humiliation of the act – it was the thought of Geralt simply abandoning him. That was what hurt. That he would wake to be a simple servant and his Witcher, the man he had dedicated his life to, wouldn’t…_

_Wouldn’t save him._

_“I’ll give you 700 and the corpses for free.”_

_“Deal.”_

* * *

He closed his eyes, and explained, with as much detail as possible. He remembered the man who sold him – a beard, didn’t have an eye, bald, and strongly built. By the time he was done, he hasn’t realized he was crying.

_Silly, weak heart._

_Geralt was here, he wouldn’t abandon him now._

But even then, even knowing, the tears wouldn’t stop streaming down his face. A hand came to rest on the side of his head, and he was pulled towards Geralt’s shoulder. He sobbed, a _weak_ and _broken_ sound. The hand didn’t leave his head, simply soothing the pain away with caresses. Jaskier’s hands came to rest on the Witcher’s chest. Sturdy, powerful, a barrier against all that tried to hurt him – something steady that would protect him, when he couldn’t protect himself.

And so, time passed like that. The two of them sitting together. In the end, they ended laying down, Geralt helping Jaskier off the boots the Witcher had lent him. Once their backs touched the mattress – an old, rusty thing, really, barely a bed – Jaskier rested his head once again in Geralt’s shoulder. He hoped he wouldn’t be pushed away.

Geralt didn’t.

They laid there in relative silence, Jaskier tears kept falling, but he was calm. His head felt empty, except for the sounds of the breeze outside, Geralt’s heartbeat, and the barmaid downstairs helping organize the tavern, probably closed for the night.

“Do you have a good memory, from your time at Kaer Morhen?” Jaskier suddenly asked – not sure why. Maybe he wanted to save at least one light from the darkness that was the Witcher’s past. Geralt turned his head to look at him – the eyes that reflected his own. Perhaps that was the thing that pushed the Witcher over the edge, maybe asking about Kaer Morhen was what would make Geralt close off again.

“Hm…” And that was it, that was the moment in which the connection between the two of them was lost. He closed his eyes, ready for the blow to happen, but it never came. “I lost something important for me.” He started, and startled Jaskier, who expected him to reply with silence. “I was, maybe, six.”

Jaskier imagined a small Geralt – with cute, big eyes, filled with innocent wonder. The Witcher continued, “I was frantically looking for it, everywhere. When I couldn’t find it, I sat in front of the fireplace in the main room, crying. One of the older Witchers found me and picked me up, bouncing me as if I weighted nothing.” He paused – the corner of his lips turned upward. “He asked ‘why is a little guy crying so hard so early’. I explained, still sobbing, and he helped me look _everywhere._ We didn’t find it, but, the next day, early in the morning, he came with something that looked awfully like what I lost.”

Jaskier smiled kindly, warmly. He could see it, Geralt upset over losing his toy – he still got upset when he lost his things, even as an adult. “Was it the ragdoll?”

_A beat._

_Two beats._

“How do you know I have a ragdoll?” Geralt pulled himself even closer, looking directly into Jaskier’s eyes and _soul._ Jaskier found himself thinking about how lovely curiosity made Geralt look – innocent curiosity.

“ _Have?_ ” The terror in the other man was so palpable – ‘ _he had said that out loud!’ –_ Jaskier wanted to laugh, and barely contained himself solely because he knew Geralt wouldn’t appreciate it. “Ileana said you had a ragdoll when you arrived at Kaer Morhen. Was it Vesemir, who gifted you another?”

“Yeah, but he told me to keep it a secret, didn’t want anyone to think he was keeping favorites.” But Jaskier knew that Geralt was the favorite. There was a song there, somewhere. He didn’t think about it, since it would only sadden him – to think of singing and watching people hate him for it. “We should rest.”

That, they should. Ten more days they needed to travel to reach Kaer Morhen, and yet, Jaskier found himself unable to sleep, simply staring at Geralt’s profile – his jaw, his cheekbones, his long, black eyelashes. Any sculpture would be lucky to have him as a muse.

_He abandoned you._

The voice on his head wouldn’t leave him alone, he had truly forgiven Geralt – but it was hard to ignore the aches in the depths of his soul. He sighed, defeated, and continued to stare at the Witcher.

“I truly thought you wouldn’t come, you know. I thought I would die without seeing you again, and death didn’t frighten me as much as the thought that I was going to die without you.” His voice was gentle and faint – a murmur – a normal human would’ve lost it to the sound of the breeze.

But Geralt was no human. He looked at him with _so much pain and regret_ that Jaskier was tempted to look away – because he didn’t want to be the cause for such horrible feelings to arise in his Witcher’s chest. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” He rested his hand on Geralt’s cheek once the Witcher leaned into the touch. The bard’s thumb caressed the black bags underneath the pale man, his lute-calloused fingers meeting with Geralt’s rough skin. “I forgive you.”

* * *

It had been seven days, when they arrived at Vattweir, a small city in the Kingdom of Kaedwen. Both him and Geralt had dismounted Roach, and they were walking side by side with her following close behind, the Witcher holding her reins. People stared at them, and Jaskier had gotten used to it by now, but in Kaedwen it was less aggressive; probably due to Kaer Morhen existing in its grounds.

The smell in the air was rotten, much dirt and abandon filling the streets – and yet, Jaskier found himself surprised when he caught something peculiar in the winds. Mahogany. It wasn’t Ash, nor Beech, nor Birch – but Mahogany. It was very strange to him, because only nobles had any Mahogany on their houses, and they weren’t close to any nobles’ residency. He took hold of Geralt’s arm, almost absentmindedly.

Geralt didn’t move to follow him, arching an eyebrow once the bard turned to look at him, “Can we see something?” Then, the Witcher followed, not attempting to free his arm from Jaskier’s hold, even though he knew he was completely capable of doing so if required. Jaskier was, after all, not a trained Witcher. They followed the smell of Mahogany – old and wise. Mahogany was one of the strongest types of woods – used for long-lasting furniture and the like. They arrived at an old home, and, Jaskier didn’t know why he knocked at the door. An old lady answered, she was small and was limping, her hair tied back. “Oh my, two Witchers? What could this old Luthier do for you?” She smiled, very sweetly, and allowed them inside.

Jaskier suddenly lost his voice, when he saw atop of a table, a small – very beautifully made – lute. The house was filled with different types of smells, Maple, Basswood, Walnut, Spruce, even woods he didn’t even know the name of, and yet, the strongest scent was Mahogany. He swallowed a lump in his throat, his lips dried. He wouldn’t dare to ask for a price – they couldn’t afford it. Other instruments laid around, but none of them were as beautiful as the lute.

Geralt took his hand, squeezed it lightly, and then stepped forward. “How much for the lute?”

The old lady, with gentle brown eyes, stared at Geralt, and then at Jaskier, and then back at Geralt. She seemed to think for a few seconds, and then, a grin bloomed on her wrinkled face. “Fifty crowns, and a small favor.”

_Fifty crowns?_ For any Mahogany instrument? She was… She was getting robbed. By her own self. Geralt hummed and waited for her to continue. “Where I go to collect my wood – in the forest near the Kestrel Mountains, there happens to be a nest of Ghouls. I’ll gladly give you my lute, if you could clear the nest for me.” 

That would take time, precious time Jaskier knew Geralt would prefer to use getting to Kaer Morhen. He was about to object, when he saw his Witcher nod once. “We’ll do it.”

“I knew you had an eye for quality!”

Jaskier simply stared at Geralt with his mouth agape – and found himself falling in love with him one more time. _Stupid, kind Witcher._

When they were outside, Jaskier once again held Geralt’s arm before he went to retrieve Roach, who was happily eating away some long grass from the yard of the front house. The Witcher turned to look at Jaskier, and he had a serene expression – he wasn’t angry at his decision, he almost seemed _pleased_. “Thank you, Geralt.” There was nothing more that he wanted to do than lean in, and plant a gentle kiss on the other man’s lips, but, they were already creeps of nature, by humanity’s standards, and he wasn’t going to let Geralt get lynched solely because of _stupid_ and _senseless_ humanity was.

Geralt stared at him and held the hand that was still gripping his sleeve, his gloved thumb drawing circles on his skin. “You’re welcome.”

* * *

The lute sounded beautiful. It sang with a sweet voice, one that cared for little in the world. He didn’t play it on the city, afraid of the looks he would get, but _oh_ , once he was outside the borders of Vattweir, he allowed his fingers to dance across the strings with the tenderness of a lover. He didn’t sing, he just enjoyed the feeling of the tremble of the strings beneath his fingertips. With his overgrown senses, he was able to listen to even the most minimal change of sounds. It was wonderful, it filled his being with such a strong happiness, to hold his instrument close to his heart. He gazed at Geralt again, almost certain there were tears in his eyes.

And the Witcher glanced back at him.

“Sing for me?” Geralt asked, and gods have mercy on his soul. _He would sing for him until the world teared his soul asunder._ He sang. The songs he never dared to perform in public, about his love, about his care, about the stars above that wouldn’t dare to compare themselves to the shine in his lover’s eyes. He sang regarding the scars – the three in his chest, the one on his shoulder blade, about the maps he would draw on the other’s skin, without any type of shame. It was a long, long song, that spoke of twenty years of love, and care, and _sorrow_. And in the end, a whisper; a murmur, taken by the winds, as the two of them walked side by side, “And I loved you, oh _, how much I loved you_.” He sang and was only interrupted by a hand on his jaw – then, a mouth pressed against his own.

It was so chaste, barely a touch of the lips – a promise, quiet, tender. “And I love you.” Geralt replied; and maybe the world was fine for a minute – if only for just a minute. He didn’t hear the sounds on the distance, didn’t smell everything all at once – didn’t feel the burn on the sun atop of his head. All he could _feel, hear,_ all that _existed,_ if only for _just_ a moment… Was _Geralt_. His golden eyes, his snow-white hair, his piercing gaze. His smell, the smell of a storm, of flowers, of sorrow and death and _hope_ , because Gods, there was hope. He rested his forehead against the Witcher’s and breathed him in.

He knew the world wasn’t burning, but his soul was lit ablaze.

They would find a way, there would be light, in the endless sea of darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you soooo much for reading. I'm a crybaby so when I saw so many people enjoying this I felt myself get teary-eyed.


	3. Unbalanced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fire was too hot, the candle too bright, and their wings melted as they reached the sky. They were Icarus, but they were also the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided that there was a plot-point I needed to close in the first chapter, so here I am.  
> I am closing it.  
> Unreliable narrator - Vesemir's point of view on Geralt-Jaskier and Yennefer.

_Toss a Coin to your Witcher._

The first time he heard that song, Vesemir was around three hundred and fifty. It was a good song, catchy, nice tune. The second time he heard it, he was three hundred and sixty-five. Then, by the time he turned three hundred and seventy-three, he didn’t hear it anymore.

Instead, he heard an ode to a heartbreak.

_Her Sweet Kiss._

And somehow, he knew it had to do with Geralt.

Because it always has to do with Geralt.

On Winter, Geralt came with a young girl. And two winters after that, he came back with the same little girl – Cirilla – and with a woman. Yennefer. And then, spring came, and Yennefer and Ciri vanished, leaving behind Geralt, who seemed ever so tired. Vesemir wondered how much Yennefer took from him – he even asked the younger man, once.

_“She wants everything.”_ He answered, broken, lost. _“Everything, and nothing at all.”_

Vesemir thought he knew people, so, in his knowledge and in his wisdom, he saw the burning candles in Geralt’s eyes when he looked at Yennefer, and he saw them as the light started to numb and become pain. She took, and took, and claimed and chained – even when she said she wanted freedom.

_Everything and nothing at all._

* * *

Vesemir enjoyed the loneliness, as much as he enjoyed companionship. He was a man of few words, but he was also a man that _knew_ what to say and _when_ to say it. So, when he welcomed Geralt and Jaskier into Kaer Morhen, he knew it wasn’t the time to address whatever happened with Jaskier – _the eyes_ , he thought silently _, golden and rich and beastly_. So, he simply hugged Geralt close, like he had done so many times, and clasped his hands over Jaskier’s shoulders, with a kind, soft smile. They both seemed ready to talk, but he wasn’t’ going to push them when they had just arrived.

He showed them to their rooms, which ended being their _room_ , and yet again, he decided against asking. Whatever Geralt decided, whoever was his partner, his lover, his companion, that was none of his business if said companion wasn’t hurting Geralt.

Because he _also_ knew Yennefer was hurting Geralt – and he knew Geralt was _hurting_ Yennefer too.

_The fire was too hot, the candle too bright, and their wings melted as they reached the sky. They were Icarus, but they were also the sun._

Once the Sorceress and Ciri were gone, Geralt was exhausted, much more than ever before, and Vesemir worried for him. With Jaskier, though, it was easier. They fell into an easy dance, one in which the parts weren’t asking for too much. They were equals, balanced in what they took and what they gave. Jaskier was burning, but the flame wasn’t killing Geralt… If anything, it made him shine brighter.

Vesemir told them that he would cook dinner, that they should settle in, and take it easy for tonight.

The two of them seemed ever so grateful, Geralt’s shoulders relaxing and Jaskier’s hand coming to grasp the younger Witcher’s; their fingers intertwined naturally. It made Vesemir smile while he turned around, giving them space to settle and calm their nerves.

Once the door behind him was closed he heard the distinct sound of a gentle kiss. It brought back memories of his youth, of the times in which he loved, and loved deeply. When he was taught how to care and how to caress.

He was curious _, of course_ , about the situation, but, Geralt looked so tired, and Jaskier seemed to be just about to collapse, so, he simply shushed them both when they were about to begin talking. Geralt wasn’t one to talk much, anyways, so he could hold his tongue until dinner.

Which reminded Vesemir that…

_Cooking wasn’t his forte._ Vesemir barely knew how to roast some beef, and salt the meat, but other than that – and well, mashed potatoes. But other than that, he didn’t know how to do much in the kitchen. Back when he was younger, ate most of his food raw, but Ileana didn’t like it, so he pushed himself to learn at least two of three things – _but it had been long since he last cooked_.

He laughed at the memories while he walked through the halls of Kaer Morhen. The children appreciated it, more than Ileana, but she kissed him anyways, sweet and nice and slow. And the children used to make noises of disgust – and Geralt, small and delicate, such a tiny creature, he would jump on her with his arms open, and he would kiss her cheeks.

_Jealous, possessive, little thing._

His heart, his old, tired heart expanded at the thought.

Ileana holding Geralt and kissing his cheeks, his forehead.

They were his small family. And when Geralt left Kaer Morhen, Vesemir felt part of his heart go with him. Ileana watched him go too, and she took Vesemir’s hands and kissed his knuckles and they were both _so_ proud of him, and yet it burnt somewhere in his chest because the man he had recognized as his child was no longer within reach so he could protect him.

Not that Geralt needed protecting. He was the most powerful Witcher in history, _by far_ , the extra mutations doing to his body what no Witcher could ever hope to archive — and yet, him and Ileana were still on the edge, as they watched him go. But, twenty years went by, years in which Ileana didn’t change and Geralt came by each winter, and everything seemed to be fine.

But in the end, it wasn’t. Nothing would ever be ‘fine’ again.

And the massacre _happened_. He lost so, so many children, so many brothers, he lost even his lover. Gods, he watched her take at least nine of the youngest and hide. He couldn’t help her.

_Gods, he couldn’t help her._

When he woke, Kaer Morhen was but a mirage of what it once had been. The walls were cracking, falling, around two or three of them alive and extremely wounded. And the children, oh, the children.

All of them laid dead, burning in a pit with not one bit of mercy. And Vesemir wondered then, why humans ever thought of them as unfeeling when they did things such as these. He walked over to the crisped bodies and held one small burnt hand and looked at an eyeless face as it was frozen forever in a silent scream, asking for help. He named them all, for none of them had chosen their names yet, and he buried all their bodies once he stopped the fire. The others were too wounded, both their spirits and their bodies, so they laid in silence looking at the collapsing ceiling of Kaer Morhen.

And when winter came, and the younger Witchers, those traveling the Path, wandered back into the halls of the Castle, looking for friends and little ones, the thing they found was but three elder Witchers sitting by the fireplace – the sense of defeat palpable in the air.

And then, there was silence. A stillness that extended until it was the only thing they knew. Geralt sat beside Vesemir, a hand tightly wrapping around his shoulder, and at least he was safe. And perhaps that was the only mercy Destiny had given Vesemir.

_Because everything else, fate had taken._

* * *

  
Jaskier and Geralt sat one beside the other on one of the small wooden tables in the dining hall, and they were talking in hushed voices, as if they were to bother the ghosts on the place – afraid of speaking too loud and perturbing the peace in the old ruins. Vesemir sat in front of them, with two plates of meat and mashed potatoes, _the only thing that he truly knew how to cook_. Geralt and Jaskier looked extremely pleased, probably because they didn’t have to cook it themselves – nor did they have to hunt it. Geralt ate as a starving man — something that hasn’t changed since he was but a child — and Jaskier ate with delicate, small bites. _He was probably of noble birth_.

They were relaxed, much more so than when they arrived, and, Vesemir, old and wise, knew that it was time to ask – _because he was curious, as well as preoccupied_. “Can we talk, now?” He asked, kindly, with a voice he had practiced much with Ileana for over two hundred years; but even with all the kindness in the world, with all the sweetness, Jaskier and Geralt _tensed_ anyways.

Jaskier took a breath, letting go of his fork, looking rather pale even underneath the candlelight of the tapers around them. When he was about to start, Geralt simply took his hand, stopping him. Vesemir saw the light squeeze, the way their golden eyes met, the pain hidden but also the affection — and he felt young again, one hundred and forty, fifty, Ileana jumping into him and kissing him senseless. He saw in their eyes what he once saw on hers.

Devotion, deep, strong, loud, but quiet and sweet and everything in between; chaos and order, endings and beginnings. Their gazes broke apart, but their hands remained together atop of the table, the food remaining untouched while Geralt started to speak, “A lord, lord Borgia, decided on human experimentation to mutate a person into a Witcher.” The hands above the table trembled, whose trembling it was, Vesemir couldn’t tell. There was anger there, in his heart. The creation of a Witcher was cruel and long and excruciating. Many times, Ileana wondered if they were truly doing what was right. He could never answer, afraid that he would lie to her as much as to himself, but elder Witchers always seemed to take the words out of his mouth and justify. _It is for the greater good,_ they would say, and, Vesemir would silently doubt anyways.

“Jaskier is the result. Everyone involved is dead, by my hand.” Geralt was always blunt – never good at having tact, and that was something that he still needed to work on, but Vesemir didn’t miss the way his voice broke at the end, nor the way Jaskier’s thumb caressed Geralt’s hand. He didn’t miss the way Jaskier swallowed, heavy and uncomfortable, even if the food was left untouched. “Well, that is good. Witchers, as monsters, same as everything else, should come to an end.”

“It’s… it’s not all.” Jaskier looked at Vesemir with those golden eyes the elder Witcher knew so well, eyes filled with wonder and passion, as well as sadness. Geralt tightened his grip over _his_ bard’s hand. Vesemir sighed, “I figured, young man. Now, out with it, what is it that’s paining the two of you so much. I can take it.”

They realized then, that Vesemir knew it was going to hurt _him_. It was funny, really, to see so many emotions in the two men in front of him, cascading over their expressions – unable to control them as they surged. They took a few seconds, deliberating who would break the uncomfortable quietude. In the end, it was Geralt the one who took the initiative, “Ileana… she… She was alive.”

Vesemir was the one who did not expect the punch he felt in the gut. He was the one who thought he was prepared, but he wasn’t. He acted, though, as if he was, as he heard Geralt, _young, naive, strong, innocent_ Geralt explain to him what happened.

Vesemir listened, intently.

Because his lover, the love of his life, the light of his dreams, she was alive, and she was trapped, and he didn’t know, and she had died, and he only knew _now_ because it was Geralt who killed her. Vesemir felt nauseous, disgusted with himself, he was angry, at everyone, at everything, at _himself_. He had awoken after the massacre and he had lost so much, so, so much and he simply thought Ileana was one of the things that they had taken. He simply believed she was dead. _But she lived._

_And she lived in so much pain._

Stillness befell the dining hall. Vesemir looked at Geralt and Jaskier, who both looked suddenly so _young and fragile and weak_ , and he felt so _old and withered and fool_.

He imagined Ileana, _his_ Ileana, alone, on a cage, waiting for him to rescue her — and his heart, the heart that was hers to take, it shattered, and the pieces spread across the infinity that was the emptiness he felt inside. When two pair of arms surrounded him, was that he finally realized he was crying. Vesemir, the eldest of Witchers alive – sobbing. He was crying and being hugged by a man he cared for as a son, and by another who he would grow to love just the same.

_He could remember, vaguely, that he didn’t cry back then._ Perhaps, because he hoped. Maybe, because there was so much pain the tears just didn’t seem to come out. Perhaps that was why he was crying twice as hard.

“It wasn’t your fault.” The two of them whispered, and maybe he wasn’t as wise as he thought he was, and maybe he didn’t know things as much as he thought he did — because, he was read as an open book.

They whispered to him, repeatedly, that it wasn’t his fault. Maybe if he heard it enough times, he would start to believe it.

Geralt, Jaskier and Vesemir all sat by the fireplace, on the floor. Jaskier and Geralt were once beside the other, hands joint under a wolf’s fur. Often, Vesemir would catch small kisses Jaskier would plant on Geralt’s jaw, or the way the younger Witcher would breathe Jaskier in, Geralt’s nose on the bard’s temple, inhaling and simply rejoicing his company.

_Young love._

Vesemir decided to fill the silence, with stories of the time of old. He was three hundred years, maybe a bit less, when Geralt came into his life. Him and Ileana had known each other for two hundred years. “It was a blood moon, when she came by.” He started; the younger men looked at him silently asking for him to continue. “Her King had assaulted her, and she decided to throw everything away and ran. Came here, knowing we don’t mingle with the way of men.”

Her hair was short back then, she cut it all. Her eyes were broken, her body wounded, and she cried almost every night. “I wasn’t very kind to her, but I was very confused. It was hard, to believe oneself to be unfeeling and then meeting someone who felt too much.”

Vesemir saw how Geralt tightened his grip around Jaskier’s hand. “Months passed, and she became the healer of Kaer Morhen. Children loved her so much, and she loved them too. It was like seeing a flower blooming. And, what a bloom it was. Her smile? It was like the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

* * *

_Ileana smiled kindly as she settled down a five-year-old child from her arms. She noticed Vesemir staring, right after the kid went his way. “You can say hi, you know?”_

_“Hm.”_

_“As few words as ever, Vesemir. What does it take to get you to talk?” She came closer to Vesemir, so close, in fact, that her blossom was almost touching Vesemir’s chest. He didn’t break eye contact with her, gold meeting with green. “Do you even want me here? Or am I the annoying witch who forced her way inside of Kaer Morhen?”_

_“I don’t care if you’re here, but you did force yourself into Kaer Morhen.” She came even closer, but he didn’t back down._

_“I’ll make you care. You just wait. We have all the time in the world.” She winked, and perhaps it was then when he felt his heart doing something funny within his chest. He noticed, whenever she smiled, there were a few wrinkles atop of her nose._

_He decided he wanted to see those wrinkles more often._

* * *

“She was brutal when needed, courageous, beautiful, strong. I held in my arms one of the hottest flames, and she held me back.” He wondered, silently, if he ever told her he loved her.

And the night passed as such, telling stories about times long lost. Then, Jaskier and Geralt retired, ushered away by Vesemir. They needed to rest, because Vesemir insisted that he was going to train Jaskier so that he at least knew how to decently hold a sword. When walking through the hall that led to his students’ shared room, Vesemir heard the whisper of ‘ _is that your ragdoll?_ ’ and felt the edges of his lips turn upward. Ileana made the ragdoll, Vesemir asked her to, because Geralt wouldn’t stop crying and it broke his heart.

Ileana did, of course, because no matter the request, she always did whatever Vesemir asked her to. And she never asked for anything in return. What a lucky man he was. What a wonderful woman he had lost. Walking down the halls on Kaer Morhen he remembered different times in which they were together.

Once, when he had broken his foot and he had helped him heal it. Another time, where she had fallen ill, and he went hunting a bear because she needed the blood for a potion. Or the time where someone had tried to invade Kaer Morhen and he saw Ileana burn them to crisps, screaming _to leave her children alone._

A storm. A force to be reckoned with.

She, perhaps, saw herself reflected in Jaskier. A bard, in love, desperately so, in pain, yearning to see the person he wanted the most. “That was your blessing, Ileana? You saw that love and you thought it was worth it?” He leaned against a giant windowsill, his elbows against the cold, old wood. “Was it Toss a Coin to your Witcher? Or was it Her Sweet kiss? What made you realize he loved Geralt so much?”

“None of them talk about love much, but admiration and heartbreak.”

The elder Witcher almost jumped – Vesemir was truly getting old. He didn’t hear Jaskier approach at all. The old man chuckled. “Those feet of yours are powerful on their own right.” Then, after a few seconds of careful consideration, he added, “Those songs are dripping with love… There is, after all, no admiration nor heartbreak without love.”

Jaskier rested his hand underneath his chin, carefully thinking on Vesemir’s words, then, he nodded. “I am a bard; careful footing is my way of living. Well, other than my charming personality and my wit, of course.” Vesemir rolled his eyes, even if the edges of his lips turned slightly upward. The Witcher didn’t point out that Jaskier didn’t mention anything about _love_. Perhaps because the bard knew Vesemir was right.

The two of them stood there, in pleasant silence for a while longer. Vesemir looked to the world outside — vast, perhaps infinite, and he focused on the sounds of nature. Animals sleeping, hunting, living. A river, a cascade, horses, butterflies, trees, the breeze… _Everything._

Jaskier broke the amicable quietness, after a while. “I wanted you to know that, she loved you to the very end. Never, not once, did she blame you. The memories of you were what kept her going. You were her light in the darkness. There are no words I can use that would ever write a ballad that would do justice to her love for you.”

Vesemir walked over to him and settled his hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, young one. Go to your lover now. He’s cold and yearning and misses you dearly when you’re not close to him. Even if only a few minutes.” The words left his mouth before he could stop them.

_The words meant for Ileana to hear._

Jaskier must’ve noticed, his golden eyes filled with pain and sorrow. He nodded, and hugged Vesemir once more, before heading to bed, in a room on the far edge of the hall. The older man watched him go, heard his steps, heard the door. Heard Jaskier fall in bed with Geralt and then, there were no more sounds other than a small kiss. Vesemir walked to his room, then, on a tower, and he laid in the bed with the same clothes he had on the entire day. Too tired to change, too tired to bathe.

He imagined for a second, Ileana laying in the bed beside him with a book in her hand, her chestnut hair falling as cascades atop of her beautiful body. Her eyes as emeralds staring into his golden soul. He imagined holding her hand and whispering to her about how much he loved her. He would’ve learned how to dance for her. Would’ve cooked and maybe even retired. She would’ve kissed his nose and his cheek and his mouth and told him secrets that had no relevance whatsoever and he would’ve listened to them all.

Then she would’ve fallen asleep. And Vesemir would’ve done the same, beside her, holding her close.

He cried, thinking on the many ways it could’ve been. He indulged into the overwhelming sensation of sorrow, promising it would be only for today. He would mourn Ileana for just today, for she had died fifty years prior in his heart and so he cried, solely for the night. He would meet with her eventually, anyways, once his tapestry on the Path was completed and he was ready to be slow on purpose.

Not yet, no, because Jaskier and Geralt still needed him. But someday, he would be slow, and then he would find Ileana on the other side of the river, waiting for him along with the children he lost on the day of the massacre.

He was sure of it. Somewhere deep in his soul a rumble reminded him of the millions of promises Ileana shared on his naked chest.

They would meet again – someday.

* * *

_“Your goodbye is a promise of lightning_

_in the last angel’s hand_

_unwelcome and warning_

_the sands have run out against us_

_we were rewarded by journeys_

_away from each other.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I've loved this journey with this fanfic very much. The poem at the end is by Audre Lorde.


	4. Boundless love.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was no more heartbreak, only love.

_Days passed, and the world seemed to silence._

_It was hard, at first, but he got used to it._

_The little crickets in the distance soon got muffled away, and he was able to ignore the world except for everything that was close-by._

_His heartbeat. Geralt’s. Vesemir’s._

_Yes._

_The world was silenced._

_And he found peace within the sound of his blood rushing within himself._

_There was no more heartbreak._

_Only love, boundless._

* * *

Jaskier sat on the edge of the bed, with his lute in hand. He was alone, while Geralt tended to Roach on the stables and Vesemir went to hunt for supper. He was looking at his lute, wonderful piece, refined and with beautiful, golden strings. He took it in his arms, with the care of a lover, bringing it in to his chest as if he was embracing it.

He played the gentlest of tunes, and the voice of the lute trembled as it sang to him. He played it with tenderness, a song with a dedication – _a name_ , even without lyrics. He found himself humming along the sound of each delicate composition, and Jaskier tilted his head ever so slightly, as if looking for _that one note_ , his eyebrows furrowing in concentration. He saw, in his mind, the score – writing itself. That _C_ with a soft _A._

But, even while his focus was _almost_ entirely on his lute, he was able to hear the slowly-growing-closer paces of a man in the halls of Kaer Morhen, and he was happy to settle his lute down – _just after finding that perfect E, mind you –_ when the door to the room opened.

“How is our darling girl?” Jaskier stood up and gave a peck to Geralt’s lips, his hand resting above the other man’s chest, the Witcher’s heartbeat slow and steady underneath his fingertips. Geralt was dressed in a chemise and without any armor, and he looked just as stunning as Geralt always did in Jaskier’s mind.

“Happy to have a long break after what we put her through.” Geralt nose came close to Jaskier’s, simply rubbing them together – so, so gentle, so _unlike what people thought of Witchers_ ; his hands came to the Bard’s face, his thumb softly caressing his cheekbones, and they were cold, even when Witchers ran warm. “New song?” He asked, he must’ve heard him playing the strings.

Jaskier nodded, his heart feeling three times its size. “Just for us, though. After all, no one will want a bard like this. They might think me a jester.”

“ _I_ want a bard like this. And, while I do think you a jester sometimes, you’re _my_ jester.” Geralt’s voice was barely a whisper — it almost made his statement sound romantic, which made Jaskier chuckle. Geralt was everything _but_ a romantic, but he tried; and really, trying was everything that Jaskier could really ask for. “Vesemir is going to be back soon.”

Jaskier settled his hands on Geralt’s waist, bringing him even closer, resting his chin on the other man’s shoulder. “He’ll want to train more, won’t he?”

“He’s being kind, doesn’t make you spar with me. Take that into consideration.” Geralt kissed his temple, delicately. “I don’t go easy, only with Ciri.”

“My valiant knight, of course you would go easy on your little princess.” He breathed Geralt in, his scent was soothing, always reminding him of home. There was heartbreak there, always lingering, but perhaps someday he would be able to erase it. “Where are them, by the way? When will you see your little princess again?” The question about the sorceress remained unasked, but Geralt must’ve been able to feel the tension on Jaskier’s shoulders. The Witcher’s hands traveled, from the other man’s neck to his spine, to his lower back, soothing him.

“Winter. Yennefer will train her until winter, then she’ll come to Kaer Morhen to train with me, and my brothers. And, with you.” Jaskier felt the edges of his mouth twitch upward.

_He was there._

_With him._

_With his brothers._

_In his life._

But he wasn’t naïve enough to remain silent about what bothered him. He wasn’t young – even if now he had more years to come. It was a tough question that needed to be answered, and if he wanted a straight answer, he needed to ask it aloud. Jaskier couldn’t help but sigh. “What about Yennefer, Geralt?”

He expected Geralt to pull away, but he didn’t. He simply held him even tighter. Geralt didn’t answer for a while, and after a few minutes, Jaskier disentangled himself from him — just enough so he could look at the Witcher in the eye. He expected to see loss and anger, but what he found was tiredness. A fight that he tried to win and lost. “She takes _so much_.” Geralt whispered, and it hurt Jaskier so intensely.

_Because he knew._

“And you can only give so much.” Jaskier cupped Geralt’s face with his hands. “Whatever you give should always be enough, my life.” The Witcher held Jaskier’s hands against his cheeks, and closed his eyes, his eyebrows relaxing as he let out a weak sigh. “… I want you to understand, that I do not want to compete for your heart, Geralt. I love you, but if you love another…”

“There’s no competition. She and I are both… exhausted. She takes and I give, and I take, and she gives and we… we can’t. Even if you… even if you were not here, we wouldn’t had continued.” Geralt explained, as the two of them sat on the edge of the bed – the furs suddenly feeling hotter than before. “She’s a woman I loved. And a woman I care for, still.” He chocked a bit on those last words. Jaskier knew it must’ve been hard for him to speak loudly feelings so close to his heart. “But you are a man I love. My heart. _My home_.”

The bard’s heart, slow in its rhyme, became as fast as it once was – back when he was completely human. He kissed Geralt, sweetly and gentle, telling him with the touch of his lips all about the undying devotion he felt for him. Each time their lips connected; another rhyme was written in his head. A ballad that would go down in history, as a song that spoke of loyalty, adoration and commitment.

* * *

“Guard!”

Jaskier’s rusty sword pointed down, his left hand coming to hold the tip in place while the blade protected his upper body.

“Bend your knees!” Vesemir shouted, and Jaskier did as instructed, for the eleventh time today. “Not that much Jaskier, you’re off balance! Open more your legs so that your feet are in line with your hips!” And Jaskier didn’t understand a single word Vesemir said but he did as he was asked anyways. Or tried to, at least. “By winter you must be able to guard me with your eyes closed!”

“By winter of which year—” Jaskier was about to finish that sentence but a very well-practiced glare from Vesemir managed to shut him up. It was like Geralt, in a much more terrifying way. “Sorry…”

Vesemir hummed – and the bard could see a feeling between anger and acceptance in that single hum. Jaskier was completely able to see Vesemir’s influence on his lover – so much it was almost painful. After a few seconds in which the older man seemed to be thinking on something, the elder Witcher finally sighed. “I forget you’re not trained; I should be apologizing.”

“I do have a bit of sword training. I just didn’t pursue it. Not really my thing.” Jaskier shrugged. It really wasn’t. But now he was forced to learn. He wasn’t going to be a burden to Geralt for the rest of their lives. “My body is very similarly built to Geralt’s, but I could do better with daggers instead of swords. Maybe bows. If I’m going to be traveling with Geralt, he can attack from up close while I keep my distance. Wouldn’t get in the way.”

“That’s not a bad idea.” Vesemir scratched his chin, looking a bit older – if that was even possible, for just one second. “I’ll be back in a minute; I’ll look for a bow. Hopefully the strings aren’t too rusty.” He walked off to the armory, leaving Jaskier with a sword and a dummy who looked like he had seen better days.

“So, mister dummy. Do you mind if I practice any of my signs with you?” Receiving no answers, he proceeded to try to practice his newly acquired magic. Jaskier tried to do an Igni sign, just for the laughs, but didn’t manage to turn anything on fire. Which wasn’t exactly bad, since he didn’t burn _himself._

“Your fingers are too wide, and your hand is too low.” Geralt threw himself off one of the walls of the training ground. “Also, please don’t burn the dummy, it’s the last we have, and Lambert will throw a _tantrum_ because he bought this one.”

The bard chuckled, trying to imagine what a Witcher throwing a tantrum would look like. “One of your brothers?”

“And the annoying one, too.” Geralt rolled his eyes, and Jaskier really had to laugh then. It wasn’t too different, from humans and Witchers, when it came to siblings, it seemed. “Come here, let me teach you.”

Geralt went to him and helped him get in a good position. His elbow needed to go higher; his fingers needed to move a bit more. “Focus on that bonfire, there, in the middle of the training ground. Then, you say it…” Geralt’s mouth was close to Jaskier’s ear as he tried to help him.

The bard’s voice was weak and subtle when he whispered, “Igni.” And once the bonfire lit ablaze – bright and strong. Powerful. A breath he didn’t know he was holding left his body. “Oh, oh that’s…”

“New?”

“Terrifyingly so.”

“Will get better with time. Don’t try it alone though.”

Jaskier couldn’t help himself when he chuckled. “Roasted lover for breakfast isn’t to your tastes, darling?”

The Witcher rolled his eyes, but his eyes were filled with a fondness that Jaskier wasn’t prepared to deal with. “I would prefer my lover as he is, thank you.”

“Urgh, I’m not prepared to hear you saying sappy things. It’s unfair, you’re already winning this fight by default. I can’t hope to compete.” The bard rested his hand atop his forehead as dramatically as he could. “How dare you win in a battle of wits against a bard.”

Geralt hummed, and he seemed to be about to say something when both him and Jaskier heard the soft paces of Vesemir returning with a bow and some daggers. The elder Witcher seemed proud about his find. “These are really good quality.” True to his word, the bow was elven-made, and Jaskier was able to smell the Oak even from where he was standing. The daggers were simple, but the metal was pure and refined, a great blacksmith must’ve been the one behind such weaponry.

“Geralt, if you’re down here you spar or you go, I’m not letting you distract the cub.”

Neither of them, bard or Witcher, pointed to the older man about that he had just called Jaskier a ‘cub’. It was endearing, really, and Jaskier tried to hide his smile behind Geralt’s shoulder, as he kissed him on his bicep. “Go hunt for dinner, love. Vesemir will let me go after sundown.”

* * *

Jaskier was laying chest-first on the bed, his body aching in places he didn’t know it was possible for a Witcher to ache. Geralt was beside him – sitting against the headboard, his hand softly caressing the bard’s curls. “I can’t believe I got bested fifty times by a man ten times my age.” He groaned. “The muscles on my muscles hurt. Why? Isn’t Witchery magic supposed to heal me? It hurt just about the same yesterday.”

Geralt tittered, looking down to the man beside him, his eyes filled with a gentle light. “Vesemir can best just about any Witcher, not just you. And, even if we heal faster, we still feel the aches on our muscles after intense exercise. Just as much as we feel pain if we get hurt.”

“I want a refund.”

The Witcher hummed, continuing to tangle his long-calloused fingers in his bard’s wild hair. “So do I, if I’m honest with you.”

Jaskier looked at him then, his own palm coming to catch the one buried in his brown curls. “Do you miss anything, about… you know… before the mutations?” He asked, bringing Geralt’s hand to his lips, kissing his knuckles. Underneath his fingertips, he could feel Geralt’s blood, rushing under his skin.

The white-haired man thought for a second, then he looked at the wooden ceiling. “The prospect of a family, I suppose. Settling down, having a farm. I never dared to dream of a child of my own but, you know. I wish I had the chance.” His head leaned back against the headboard – his fingers intertwined with Jaskier’s.

_There was the smell of heartbreak._

_Right there, along with melancholy._

“We could do it; you know. Settle down. A cottage, somewhere far. There are children with no home because of the war. There’s nothing wrong with wanting those things, even as a Witcher.” Jaskier turned his body, so that he was facing Geralt entirely. “And the little princess, we could always come here on winters anyways and train her. And we could bring our _other_ children too. Our cubs.”

Geralt’s smile was a sad one, but it was a smile, nonetheless. He bent down to lay a kiss on Jaskier’s mouth and rubbed his nose against the bard’s. “Sounds wonderful. On the coast, like you wanted.”

The bard brought his free hand to Geralt’s face. “And I’ll sing to them every night, our children. And they’ll grow up healthy and kind, and hardworking. Your little princess too, beautiful and powerful and free.”

And they knew it was wishful thinking. What village would allow them to stay? What village would let them adopt some children without thinking they were harvesting them to eat them? It was a cruel dream, cruel and wonderful. Together, growing slow and growing tired but together, on the edge of the world.

They laid there, talking about their future. Jaskier wanted to teach Geralt how to play the lute and Geralt absolutely wasn’t going to learn how to play it, but he indulged the bard in his dreams anyways; and for a few hours, it was fine. For them, in their little world, it was already tomorrow, and they were already at their small cottage on the coast, with four, maybe five children, playing on the backyard.

* * *

Jaskier found a library in Kaer Morhen, while he was exploring on his own. The library was mostly filled with books about monsters, but, for some strange reason, there were a few fairytales, too. Older fairytales, not the classical Cinderella but the ones based off real stories. He read them, silently, happily drifting away into a fantasy-world. Pinocchio, the cursed puppet that had a spirit trapped within… The sleeping beauty, a sorceress who put herself into an endless sleep until her lover — a woman, a princess — kissed her to wake her up.

Even tales of other continents, of monsters and men — of infinite seas and darkness beyond measure. Jaskier was reading a specific book, red, with a weird pattern on the edges, when he heard a few paces, and he turned to see Geralt standing by the door. His hair was tied back, and in his hand, he held two mugs. The Witcher came closer and sat with him on the table, in the chair right in front of Jaskier’s. “That’s a tale from an island across the sea. About a monster that it’s called upon by the evil intent of the people. It’s more of a legend, really.”

“Very specific knowledge. _Did you read it_?” Jaskier took one of the mugs and drank, the ale was of better quality than most they had on their travels. He smiled, thinking on the Witcher choosing something sweet for them to drink together. “Imagine little Geralt, reading all the books in here.”

“You’re not that far off, I _do_ like reading. I keep a few books on myself when traveling.” Geralt took a sip of his own ale, and then raised an eyebrow at Jaskier’s stunned expression. “What? Yes, I like reading. Stop looking at me like that. No, I’m not a caveman.”

“Not liking reading doesn’t _make_ you a caveman… but honestly, I can’t deny I’m a bit surprised.” Jaksier held Geralt’s hand atop of the table. Their fingers joined, naturally looking for the comforting touch. “Do you have a favorite tale?”

Jaskier’s thumb played absentmindedly with Geralt’s skin, while he waited for the man to reply. He saw the Witcher’s brow furrow in concentration, and he couldn’t help but think of it as adorable. “I honestly can’t think of a favorite. What about yours?” Geralt gazed him curiously, those golden eyes rendering Jaskier defenseless once again.

_Gods, what he would do for him._

The bard brought the Witcher’s hand up to his face, kissing his fingers softly. “Mine hasn’t been written yet. But it is a story of a valiant knight, and the poet who follows him. It’ll be a hit.”

Geralt snorted, and a bit of the ale in his mug fell on his chemise. _It was the most beautiful sound Jaskier ever heard in his life_. “Do you ever listen to yourself when you speak? I’m not some pure maiden that needs wooing with sweet nothings, Jas.” Geralt’s voice was filled with fondness, endless and boundless.

“Get used to a lifetime of wooing, Geralt.” Jaskier’s lips quirked up, and he saw the edges of Geralt’s eyes turning up, a smile so sincere it was reaching his gaze. “I’ll write you poems, epics, songs, books, so that everyone knows how much I love you. Future historians will look at my work and they’ll claim me mad.” There, Jaskier tittered. “And perhaps I am. I am madly in love with you. Since the very first day.” 

And then, there was sadness in the eyes of the man he loved – even when Jaskier was talking about his love for him. “I mistreated you, Jas.”

“And this dammed _world_ mistreated you. I _know_ that doesn’t excuse you, but I can’t hold it against you either.” Jaskier made Geralt looked at him, as he leaned over the table, holding the man’s face between his long, abused fingers. “The only thing I remember from the trials, is calling your name. _Over, and over, and over again._ You were my only light. I thought you hated me and that pained me almost as much as dying.”

And the love Jaskier saw on Geralt’s eyes… that made him fall even deeper. The way the Witcher tilted his head ever so slightly, the almost-smile on his lips, the vulnerable way his brow furrowed. “You’re too much, my love. Too kind, I fear I may abuse it.”

“You’re always afraid of taking too much… you don’t understand that I already gave you everything. You are free to take it.” Jaskier met Geralt’s lips, and they tasted like ale and meat, and his _scent,_ gods, his scent. He smelled like the sea, but not before a storm.

T _here was no heartbreak_ , just vanilla and wood, the ocean, and _Geralt._

_Just Geralt._

And Jaskier thought of Ileana, and he could almost see her _smiling_.

There were dreams, on the morrow. On the horizon, a future that was uncertain. He would learn how to fight, and they would hunt together, and then, perhaps, _they would find a cottage on the coast._ Find some children. Give them a home. He would make those cruel dreams a reality. His epic poems would go down in history and they would speak of a Witcher and his Bard, _a knight and his poet_.

And they would sing of them, until the sun rose on the horizon no more.

_No more heartbreak, only boundless love._

And, while it wasn't forever, Jaskier would cherish it, for however long it was. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for continuing with this adventure with me. I'm forever grateful to all of you who've taken the time to read my work!


	5. Remembrance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things to be grateful for, and things that have changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an epilogue of sorts, I've been playing TW3, and let me tell you all, humans are assholes in this game.

The calling of the Path was strong, _too strong_ , for Geralt to resist; and winter was still nowhere near the horizon. Three months went by, and it was still summer, even if the breezes of autumn were starting to hum in the distance. Jaskier was stronger, much stronger; faster and had a kin talent with bow that was almost unnatural — even if he was, still, less than averagely good with a sword, for a Witcher. But even then, with still much to learn, he accepted the offer to leave when Geralt told him that he had a choice, and now, they were both walking on the hard, cold soil – since it was always chilly, up in Kaer Morhen.

He missed it, the sound of the stones under him as he led Roach on the Path. The smell of rain, and trees and the air kissing his pale skin. And he was sure, come winter – and returning once again back _home_ \- he would miss the hand holding his, as him and Jaskier walked together, surrounded by the quietness, only interrupted by the humming of his lover, his voice soft and sweet still, not damaged after endless hours of training and the trials.

_And that was a pleasant reminder of his own humanity._

How Jaskier remained happy, and passionate, and flamboyant, and everything that Geralt _wasn’t._ It soothed him, something deep within him that was asking for release, ever since he found Jaskier laying in a pool of his own blood. Ileana promised that he was unchanged, promised that he was still Jaskier, by telling him that he did not remember, but there was never certainly in Geralt’s life.

Everything he had ever known was the shakiness of human’s opinions, and the emptiness of promises that held no meaning in his long, long life.

_But..._

Jaskier had remained. Even after the mountain.

Even after the trials.

He was _still_ the same bard he had known. The one who sang songs about him, who danced and fell in love and out of love faster than a drowner swum. And, he didn’t know how to properly express the gratitude he felt, to Jaskier himself, and to the world, because for some dammed reason he was given something that, perhaps _, wouldn’t be taken away._

Something that was to be left unchanged.

The hand grasping his own squeezed lightly, and he turned to see Jaskier, his hair longer, his eyes golden, his lips pressed in a soft smile. “Your heart is beating faster, sweetheart. What’s wrong?”

Now, even if Jaskier himself remained, that did not mean that he didn’t use his newfound powers to his advantage, sometimes. It was strange, to have him recognize Geralt’s heartbeat, but it was also reassuring, that he didn’t have to explain so much of what he was feeling, since Jaskier was able to tell half of the emotions by simply standing close.

Geralt pressed a kiss to the bard’s temple. “Don’t worry, just thinking.”

“Hmmm.” Replied the bard, and simply rubbed his nose against Geralt’s. “Another two miles and there’s a village. I can smell the fresh bread.”

“Hungry already?”

“You never told me you would get hungry once every hour. It’s almost a nightmare.” Jaskier groaned, and Geralt felt the edges of his mouth quirk up. Roach neighed at them, after a few minutes, probably tired of their romanticism — and no one would ever believe Jaskier, ever, if he told them that he heard the Witcher giggle.

* * *

Turned out, that the village indeed had a contract to be fulfilled. The alderman was offering some pretty penny, too – too much for them to ignore. Something was eating away their livestock (and a wounded woman had stated that she saw something in the woods), and they needed to find if before winter came, and of course, a Witcher was not a gift that happened often in the continent nowadays – much less two of them at a time; and thus, they accepted.

It was now, though, inside of the room they had rented, that they came face to face with a difficult choice to make. Jaskier was a bard and was educated as such, and even though he had training in Kaer Morhen, Geralt was still unsure whether he could and should be taken with him in a hunt. Usually, back when Jaskier was not mutated, he would stay and play, but now… now Geralt was _afraid_. Of what they would do to him. Of how they would hurt Jaskier with words when he wasn’t there to defend him. But he did not want to tell him not to play, because, what sort of lover would he be if he did not support Jaskier’s craft…

_But he knew how humans were, how cruel they could be with something that was different._

“Go, love.” Jaskier whispered after a while. “I’ll keep to myself.”

Geralt sighed, and kissed him, softly.

A dance the two of them knew well — a hand, covered in leather gloves, traced Geralt cheekbone, and tangled itself in his white strands. His own two hands held onto Jaskier’s neck as if it was a lifeline. They moved in sync, knowing what pleases the other, having seen it time, and time again.

They parted, not knowing how much time had passed. Geralt looked into his bard’s eyes, pupils blown wide, surrounded by barely visible golden rings. “If you stay any longer, I won’t let you leave until tomorrow, so you better go, dearest…” He wasn’t looking into Geralt’s eyes, but to his mouth, and the Witcher felt his insides burning. Jaskier pecked him on the lips once more, and then, he untangled himself from Geralt’s grip, leaving just a single hand atop Geralt’s heart. “Be safe.” He smiled, still just as sweet as he had the first time they’ve met.

Geralt held onto the hand atop his heart for a few seconds, feeling the warm – drinking from it as if it was the sweetest wine. “You too.”

* * *

The contract turned out to be a werewolf — who wished to die, by the hand of a merciful hand who would bring a quick end to his suffering. Geralt wasn’t cruel, and the werewolf was starting to lose his grip on humanity.

He wished he had gotten there faster, maybe then he would’ve helped, but he was glad that he was able to give the man a merciful end, fast and swift. He would never tell anyone about the grave he dug, or the flowers he settled underneath an oaken tree. He was not one to believe much in gods or goddesses, but he uttered a prayer, and then, he was on his way to the village, with a tail instead of a head as a trophy, to show the alderman.

It was late – he could wait until tomorrow to collect the coin, so he went to the inn instead, leaving the tail on the stables with Roach.

When he entered, he was surprised by a few fresh stains on the floor — not blood, but ale, and food – sauce and beef, even a tomato; and the glares of the village folk who were eating dinner or drinking some piss-poor ale. Some whispered, brave because of the anonymity brought by the shadows, about the mutant-freak who tried to sing to them. _And then, he knew._

He ran pass them, up the stairs, to the left, on the farthest room to the entrance… and he opened the door, to find Jaskier sitting on a chair in front of a desk, his lute abandoned on the bed that was barely even a bed to begin with.

His hair was stained with red – the tomato, his chemise, with yellow… Obviously the ale. His eyes were closed, but his mouth held a dry smile when he turned to face Geralt. “Welcome back, dearest.”

Geralt knelt in front of him, his eyes filled with rage, sadness, panic… All the emotions he didn’t allow himself to have. He held Jaskier’s hands up to his face, weakly, kissing his palm. “They did this to you.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement and the silence was heavy for a few minutes.

“I thought, so close to Kaer Morhen, they wouldn’t be so hostile. Was wrong, darling.” He sounded so, _so_ tired. When he opened his beautiful, golden eyes, Geralt saw those tears that were left unshed. “It’s fine, it was my fault.”

_It wasn’t, it never was_. But the world they lived in was afraid of everything that was stronger than humans were. People despised what they couldn’t understand. “Pack up.” Geralt stated, as he stood up. Jaskier was confused, but he followed suit, standing, taking hold of Geralt’s arm. “What for?”

Geralt gestured at Jaskier figure vaguely. “I’m not giving my coin to someone who allowed this to happen.” Each word was snarled, venom dripping with every single one of them. He would let everyone, anyone, step over him, a million times over.

_But he would never let a person take advantage of those he loves. Jaskier did nothing to deserve to be mistreated._

He helped him clean his hair with the ruined chemise and gave him a shirt, and after (when Geralt got his coin _back_ because he wasn’t going to give them the pleasure of leaving a free room and money), they were on their way. Even if it was late, he knocked on the door of the alderman, harshly, and he threw the tail on the wooden floor. He received his crowns and the contract was done. 

An hour later, they found a clearing in the woods, and they made camp in silence. Jaskier was not even humming, and that was Geralt’s queue that something was not right. The bedrolls were left by the side of the bonfire, and Jaskier sat on the edge of the clearing, his back resting against a tree. He had a hand on his forehead, while he laid his elbow on his knee. That, Geralt was surprised to find, had changed. Whenever a ballad wasn’t well received, Jaskier would be offended by the lack of taste of _the others,_ he did not think he was the one at fault. But now… now he seemed defeated. “Jas…”

“I’m not sad, dearest.” And Geralt knew he was lying. He sat by his side, bringing his hand to his hair, making his head rest on Geralt’s shoulder. He sobbed, then, and Geralt felt his heart of hearts shatter. “I’m not sad, I promise.”

He kept lying, perhaps to himself, so, Geralt decided to indulge him, at least for a while. “I know, I know.”

And he cried, for a while longer. Whispering, once and over again, that he was not sad — then, there was silence. A heavy silence filled with much thought. Perhaps there was a lesson there somewhere, about humans and Witchers. But it wasn’t a lesson he wanted Jaskier to learn, ever. He wanted him free and beautiful and happy, not like them.

_Never like them._

Disrespected and sometimes treated less than human. “They said that arts were something too marvelous for a Witcher. That I was but a monster imitating a musician. Of course, their words were less fancy and much more akin to ‘whoreson tryin’ to be a bard, aye?’”

Geralt growled. “You’re the best musician on this whole damn continent.” He spat, and there was a soft chuckle on his side, music to his ears. “Never stop playing, buttercup. I will listen to all of the songs.” He turned his head to look at Jaskier, his eyes red from crying, but filled with love.

“You and Roach, then. I will sing for you two.”

“And Triss, and Ciri, and, with a bit of convincing, and maybe much alcohol, Yen. _And_ the Witchers you will meet on Winter; they will _love_ Fishmonger’s Daughter.”

Jaskier laughed openly, and there it was, those beautiful wrinkles around his eyes that he got only whenever he was laughing too loudly. He straddled Geralt’s thighs and hugged him. “I’ll sing for you then.” He kissed Geralt atop of his nose; the nose that he has broken at least fifteen different times — and he can feel nothing but the tingling sensation of Jaskier’s lips. Warm, gentle, welcoming. “I wonder…” Jaskier voice was suddenly nostalgic, and he rested his head on Geralt’s chest. “Will they remember us, now that they won’t listen? Will they remember, once we’re gone?”

At that thought, Geralt hummed, deep in thought. “Those who matter will remember, Jaskier.” He finally answered. “We don’t have to do everything for a legacy. You just… keep being you, that’s enough. People will remember you.”

“ _Us._ Together, always.”

Geralt cupped Jaskier’s face, and kissed his eyelids, taking away with his lips tears that were still falling from golden eyes. His voice was deep and perhaps too vulnerable to his liking, but he whispered, anyways, with absolute certainty, “Always.”

And indeed, he was grateful, that this, right here, wouldn’t be taken away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!  
> Toss a comment to yo writer, o' reader of plenty? <3
> 
> I’m sure Jaskier will eventually overcome the mutations, but in the world of the Witcher, well... Witchers are not as loved nor as cared as they should be. Just notice the religion that becomes popular in TW3; the “Eternal Fire”, and all that nonsense is but an excuse for the elimination of different species. Urgh. So, for now, our lovely bard will sing for people who matter most.


End file.
